Symptomatic
by PatronSaintOfBEGA
Summary: Garland can handle the 'flu, but being taken care of is another matter altogether. Unmitigated rubbish, review and I love you!


**Symptomatic**

**-------**

Garland is sick.

He wishes he was wise enough to _not_ have woken up this morning, not even to his sister's hurried voice - _"Hey? Hey, you alright? Geez, I'm gonna miss my flight...I'll go get someone." _- her hand ruffling his hair. Giles passed through just minutes later, and insisted on doing the exact same thing. Said something about driving Kylie to the airport because of taxis and good grief, _why_ did he fetch Mystel? Perhaps to a singularly oblivious Martian this action would have qualified as helpful. But Giles, at least theoretically, is from the same planet and has even lived in the same house. Garland feels he has been quite seriously misled as to the thinking capacity of his siblings.

He also feels sick. This is because, according to said ever-so-busy siblings and their sterling medical advice, he _"must have a touch of the flu or something. So don't worry. Just get the thingies, in the drawer in the kitchen, yeah? With water. Okay, see you in two weeks."_

He is clearly surrounded by idiots.

And he recalls Mystel watching Kylie put a hand on his forehead and say something about a temperature. Which led to his teammate, after the others left, deciding he really wasn't qualified for this and going to wake Brooklyn for advice. Astonishingly, he returned alive, twenty minutes later, with what were probably the thingies from the kitchen and some water. And instructions to _not_ let him out of bed. On pain of death. Which Mystel is still taking far too seriously, having assumed this to mean that Garland will surely die if allowed to walk around. Or stand up. Or do anything without his considerable interference. Attempts to convince him otherwise are useless, as Brooklyn has apparently _told him so_ about these suspicions.

Sooner or later, Garland must remember to have a talk with both of them about sarcasm and what it is used for.

In the meantime, doubtless Brooklyn is highly amused, but regrettably smart enough to lurk in the safety of the kitchen, where presently Garland cannot even attempt to reach him and wring his neck without being physically tackled back to the bedclothes by 100lbs of very concerned Egyptian. This is probably part of some devious plan. Which Garland will thwart at a later date, when his sinuses are no longer full of goop. And when Mystel has returned to leap all over his _own_ family, somewhere hot and sunny and - this is important - far, far away from Garland.

He has only left the room twice since appearing; considering Mystel's typical attention span and propensity for action, this is frankly astounding. Not that Garland is enjoying it, or anything.

The first departure was to fetch breakfast - cut fruit, plus pastries and juice, on a tray. Which he wondered at the promptness of, until noting to one side of the tray a small glass vase containing one sleek, charcoal-grey feather. He consoles himself with the knowledge that Mystel has at least not been in the kitchen, then. Not to _do_ anything.

The second absence occurred around midday, to answer a phone call from somewhere in the Bahamas. Garland entertained thoughts of escape at that point; thoughts of getting up and doing those things that need to be done _today_, no _really_, even if they don't. Until Brooklyn sidled in the door, one steadily raising eyebrow reminding said treacherous thoughts that their time was up and if they knew what was good for them they would _leave_.

Compensation for this happened to be in the form of a brand new tray, this time with lunch on it, and more cold medicine. Brooklyn even knelt on the bed for twenty minutes, conversed while Garland ate, and ever-so-gingerly clasped a hand over his forehead to check for temperature. Left abruptly when Mystel returned, only pausing to smirk sheepishly at Garland's bleary thanks for the food and medicine.

Shuffling up on the pillows at five past five, having listened to every detail of what Mystel's parents are doing and then instantly forgotten it, Garland vaguely regrets leaving his hair long. For a start, it has been ruffled so many times already today as to just not be worth it. Furthermore, thanks to his stupidly high temperature, it is currently clotted with sweat and hanging unpleasantly over his eyes no matter _what_ he does. He blinks out between hanks of it at Mystel.

The blonde is resting at the end of the bed, legs propped up the wall - still in lurid green pajama bottoms - and a copy of Harry Potter and something-in-Greek open on his bare stomach; the top half of his pajamas persistently falls upwards in this position, and who, Garland thinks, can blame it. Mystel does not seem concerned about this. He reads slowly, following the words with a pointer finger in case they change places to confuse him. Occasionally glances over to check his captain is not risking life and limb by assuming the vertical. And with one of these glances detects fed-up-ness, and then of course is down from the wall and all over Garland in less than a second.

"What is it? What's wrong? Are you gonna be sick? I can get a basin - "

"No, no - " Garland pauses to cough, which turns into an ungainly snort halfway. " - Nothing."

The blonde frowns, critical, clearly unconvinced by the blandishments. The terrible thought that he may in fact have a _brain_ surfaces briefly. It is drowned shortly after as he dumps his book overboard and leans far too far forward, head on one side.

"Well you _look_ alright. Hmm. Okay - sit forward, lemme try something, yeah?"

"What - " Under normal circumstances, Garland would intervene at this point, but is caught in the crossfire of weary-sickness and just plain _Mystel_, and therefore can think of nothing to do but obey, sitting up.

The other pushes and wriggles until lodged between his back and the pillows, shushing at his faint protests, and then quite unexpectedly reaching over his head. No, onto it. Collecting his currently _disgusting_ hair together. Combing haphazardly through it with blunt, gentle fingers. Tugging in every direction at once until it itches, but it stays off his face when the hands leave.

Mystel must be coming down with something too, as he says nothing. Garland turns his head slightly and feels the weight of a braid at the back of it, which is of course a terribly sloppy one but it's comfortable, and he would've thought of it but can't tie braids anyway. As an art form, it proves elusive. But keeps anything from trawling over his eyes.

And he'd think of something to say about it, too, but now the hair is off the back of his neck, the room has suddenly and maliciously turned Arctic. Garland pulls the blue eiderdown up absently and shivers, wondering when the next lot of medicine and unfamiliar, delicious food will arrive. It should be hot. Perhaps he can ask for tea.

His thoughts are interrupted for the _n_-th time today by a very heavy, tickling scarf draping itself around his shoulders. It turns out to be the upper half of Mystel, breathing in his ear, clinging. The rest of it soon joins in, legs wrapping around his waist like its arms have, loosely, around his neck, and for a moment Garland is mortally afraid he will be asked to provide a piggy-back ride. The fear passes as the blonde simply remains in place. Exhaling slowly, skin perfectly warm through two t-shirts, smiling at the side of his face.

Garland really wants to blow his nose, and is aware this will soon be far _too_ warm for comfort, and the kitchen is probably a truly epic mess by now, and he had things to _do_ today. And Mystel will never be able to remember which page he was up to. And somewhere the phone was ringing just now and he dreads that Brooklyn may have answered it. And his head hurts.

However, as he leans back lightly against someone absolutely the right temperature, things could be worse.

**-------**

**NOTES:**

**Okay, that was pointless shite. But feather-duster is sick and has crashed out recently, and dammit if someone else isn't gonna be sick too. Thank Garland and his convenient habit of drawing the short straw for this thing's existence.**

**Also a note of massive apology to Littlest-Angel for not getting your request done because I am presently a useless twat. Oh gawd I'm sorry. I started writing it and it died horribly on me. -cries- Forgiveness? Maybe? Someday? Augh.**

**In terms of the actual fic that happened just now, childish-sounding/confused language patterns are intentional. We're halfway tuned in to poor, sickly Garland's brain here, folks. He's just not thinking clearly. After all, he's been tackled by Mystel, repeatedly, and so on. And if he has the same cold/flu as feather-duster right now, his head is so full of mucus he couldn't think if someone paid him. So there.**

**Mystel can tie braids and read in Greek, and Brooklyn can cook and produce feathers out of ostensibly nowhere. Trust feather-duster on these points. Or you'll be sorry, dammit. **

**Keli, you can't say you weren't warned.**

**Everyone else, well, feather-duster will probably be terribly embarrassed by this when she's thinking straight/clearly/at all again, so if it's taken down just pretend it never happened. Hmmmkay?**

**Review and you may not die of the plague. And feather-duster will love you, especially if you've got medicine.**

**PS: Yay cameo Garland-siblings! Wheeeeee!**


End file.
